


A Sleepless Night

by Sulla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-11
Updated: 2011-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulla/pseuds/Sulla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a response to a <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5880.html?thread=22183928#t22183928">prompt</a> on the  kinkmeme, which was as follows:<br/>Sherlock has trouble sleeping through the night -- his hours are erratic at best and chaotic at worst. One night he's tossing and turning and fidgeting so much it wakes up his bed partner, who, for lack of a better idea, decides to fuck Sherlock so thoroughly they can both get back to sleep.</p><p>(It works.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sleepless Night

Sherlock had always considered sleep to be something that wasn't really necessary, and when his body periodically succumbed to it, he resented it greatly. There are only three things that caused Sherlock to sleep at all: boredom, drugs, or all-out exhaustion. Sleep, to him, was a dirty word, and Sherlock considered it contemptible waste of his precious time.

In the years before John Watson, his sleeping habits bothered the people he lived with, but he simply didn't care. As an infant, he cried unceasingly, shrieking his displeasure to the cosmos around the clock, to the point that Mummy was threatening suicide and Father up and left in sheer disgust. (Mycroft never quite forgave his little brother for the loss of their father, but Sherlock didn't let that bother him). As a teen, Sherlock was known in school as 'the Wakeful Wanker' and legends were formed around the fact that no one had yet been found who had _actually seen_ the youth asleep. In uni, his flatmates knew to expect him to be at his experiments at all hours; there was no way one could pull a bird and bring her home for a quick little fuck - Sherlock could be counted upon to always be there front and centre to ruin the mood with his caustic attitude and obscenely detailed personal deductions. The flatmates quickly learned to avoid him at all costs.

All of these experiences culminated in Sherlock being unable to find a flatmate in all of Greater London. He was unwelcome in rooming and boarding houses, and inn and B&B owners had his photo pinned up by front door. Sherlock Holmes did not go to sleep without a fight, and no one wanted to be around to experience the battle and its messy aftermath.

Now, as a consulting detective, he made and kept his own hours. The detectives at Scotland Yard had tried many times to keep Sherlock under control, but after the detective had cracked D.I. Lestrade's home phone number for the twenty-second time, he just stopped bothering and gave up to the realization that he would just have to live with repeated 3AM phone calls when a case was on.

After some searching, and the lucky run-in with a prior client of his, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock had finally found a flat that had soundproofing on the upper level, and as so was unlikely to get him kicked out yet again for 24-hour experiments. Best of all, he had been very happy to find John Watson to let the place with him. Thus began the most productive and fulfilling time of Sherlock's life.

John Watson was a diamond in the rough. He was not quite as stupid as the majority of humanity, and while he did have some wakeful nights due to nightmares and assorted bad dreams, beyond that, he slept like the dead. As long as Sherlock wasn't in the room, John could sleep through just about anything. Explosions, gunshots, jackhammers and indoor lawnmowers (John hadn't even _asked_ about the reason for that one, and Sherlock didn't enlighten him), John slept through it all. As long as it was _not in the room with him._ John was interested beyond all expectation in Sherlock's work, which was a bonus, and put up with Sherlock's eccentricities, which was almost unheard-of. Yes, his time with John was a bountiful era, full of gruesome murder scenes, perplexing puzzles and exciting escapes, and Sherlock was happier than he'd ever been.

Then John Watson had kissed him.

That kiss started a whirlwind romance, the like of which had never happened to Sherlock before. In fact, Sherlock had never even had a sex partner before, so it wasn't difficult for it to stand out. Nonetheless, Sherlock was blown away by his newfound happiness with his new mate. John was the perfect partner in so many ways, and it seemed like Sherlock had finally hit the jackpot when it came to his social life.

The only hole in the fabric of their happiness was that John wanted them to sleep together at night. Sherlock, habituated by a lifetime's worth of experience, told him that it was very unlikely that it was even physically possible for them to share a bed for sleeping. John found this hard to believe. Sherlock, after much wheedling and convincing on John's part, finally agreed to try, and they decided on John's upstairs bedroom to be their sleeping area.

On the night that they decided to try, it had been a long day, full of action, and they had topped the night off with an energetic session on the sofa. John was yawning conspicuously as he indulged himself with a great cup of chamomile tea to ease him into sleepiness. Eyeing his already restless partner, he heated up a pan of milk and served it to the doubtful detective.

"I'm just not sure that this is going to work, John," Sherlock said quietly.

"What, the hot milk?"

"No, the sleeping together."

"Sherlock, as I told you, I have yet to see you sleep, but I know that you must do so, as no human being can live without sleeping. Just don't think about it, and let it be. You'll be asleep before you know it."

"Perhaps I'm not human."

John snorted. "Don't flatter yourself."

Sherlock just grinned and pulled back the covers on the bed, slowly easing himself into place beside John, who flicked off the light. He lay back on the bed, listening as John's breathing became quieter and steadier, and finally picked up a definite rhythm that signaled to Sherlock that the man was asleep.

Sherlock twiddled his thumbs. He was lying on his back, and he was quickly becoming restless. It would help if he rolled onto his side. He did so. He looked carefully at John, who didn't move or even pause in his breath. He soon became uncomfortable on his side, so he then turned onto his front. Again, this did not work. By the end of an hour, Sherlock was tossing and turning, mumbling curses under his breath and getting his feet tangled in the bedcovers, dragging them almost fully off of John's body.

John had actually awoken on the third roll. There was no way in hell he was going to be able to sleep with this kind of motion in the bed. He didn't say anything, hoping Sherlock would eventually settle, but it just went on and on, and before he knew it he was staring at the digital clock by the bed. 3 AM. 3:15. 3:30.

This was ridiculous. Something had to be done.

John waited until Sherlock rolled onto his side, away from John, and then made his move. He scuttled over close behind the larger man, curling himself around him, laying like spoons with his knees tucked up tight behind Sherlock's own. He heard the detective's breath halt and then hitch a bit as his hand stole over Sherlock's waist, and came to rest on the half-hard cock encased in the soft flannel pyjama bottoms.

Neither of them said a words

Neither of them said a word.

John just rhythmically squeezed the cock in his hand for a few moments, feeling it fill with blood, quickly reaching its impressive full size. His own cock was swelling as well; he pressed it against Sherlock's arse, lining it up with the detective's cloth-covered cleft.

A damp spot was forming at the head of Sherlock's cock, so John slipped his hand quickly into the man's pants, going straight down to fondle his balls, slipping up every few moments to graze his fingers all along his length. After doing this five times in a row, Sherlock was beginning to tremble.

John slowly and silently slipped his hand back out and eased Sherlock's PJ bottoms and pants down so that they came to rest around his thighs, baring the detective's arse for John's use. Using his free hand, he fumbled for and ultimately found the tube of lube he'd placed under his pillow, and pulling his hand away from Sherlock's cock, he quickly slicked his fingers with it.

He pulled himself up so that he was kneeling behind Sherlock's turned back and bared buttocks. He pushed Sherlock's knees up so that his arse was even more on display for him, but still keeping him laying on his side, and then spreading the man's cheeks, he eased a finger inside of him. Sherlock moaned under his breath. John shushed him, and quickly inserted another, and then a third finger into Sherlock's hole.

The detective was now grinding his hips back onto the three fingers impaling him, one hand over his mouth, the other having slipped down to stroke his own cock when John's hand had pulled away. He jacked himself in time to John's movements and rotated his hips in feverish little circles each time that John stroked his prostate.

John shoved his own pants down below his cock and balls, freeing his erection into the night air. Watching his fingers penetrating Sherlock's arse over and over again in the dim light, John pulled his foreskin back over the head of his cock over and over, using the little bit of skin to rub and stimulate just the very tip of his cock. He took some of the pre-come seeping from his tip and stroked it down to the bottom of his shaft, and then added a dollop of lube from the tube beside him, making himself fully slick. He shuffled over on his knees as close as he could get, and pulled his fingers out of his partner.

Sherlock gasped at the empty feeling he experienced as John's fingers left him. He was curled up in a near-fetal position with his arse exposed to John's ministrations and his hole gaping and grasping at the empty air for something to fill it. John was kneeling upright behind Sherlock's arse, and placed the head of his cock to the detective's hole and let it just sit there, right on the edge of entry. John could feel Sherlock holding his breath, and didn't move.

Sherlock was becoming impatient. He huffed a bit and began pushing his arse back against the pressure at this hole, and John allowed it, bracing his body so that Sherlock was able to impale himself on John's cock. John held still. Sherlock pulled forward a fraction, and then shoved back harder, embedding the first two inches of John's dick inside his clenching entrance.

John finally decided to break the silence. "Mmm,yeah, Sherlock, do it," he whispered above the man. "Go on, fuck yourself on me."

Sherlock trembled with a full-body shudder at this and shoved his arse back again hard, taking in another full inch of John's cock. John kept talking. "I want you to work for it, Sherlock. I know you want my cock. You want it so badly you'll fuck _yourself_ , won't you? I can just sit here and you'll just fuck yourself on my dick."  
Sherlock just moaned incoherently in response. John sat back and enjoyed the view, watching as his dick appeared and disappeared in and out of Sherlock's hole, glistening in the dim light whenever it came out. John would have liked this to go on forever, but he was quickly losing patience with the slow pace, which was as fast as Sherlock could make it from his angle.

With a growl, John pulled Sherlock's bottom leg down straight so that he could shove the man over onto his front with the one leg still up and off to the side, spread wide for John's cock. John rolled with him, and shoved in to Sherlock's body as deeply as he could. He pounded into Sherlock's body, gripping the man around his waist with one hand, and pushing his shoulder down into the bed with the other. The pace grew so frantic that John's hand slipped in the sweat on the detective's back so that his hand was in Sherlock's hair, pushing the side of the man's head into the pillow as John's hips worked.

Realizing that he was holding the man down, John stopped right away, taking his hand off Sherlock's head and and stilling his body for a moment to be able to assess the detective's reaction.

Sherlock apparently had remembered the earlier instruction and didn't speak, but allowed a happy groan to exit his body. He began to push his arse back onto John's cock again, eager for more. That was enough for John. He wordlessly paused to pull Sherlock fully up onto his hands and knees and stilled his own body. Again, after a few moments of stillness Sherlock took the hint and shoved himself backwards onto John's dick.

Rocking back and forth at a break-neck pace, Sherlock was clenching and relaxing his hole with the effort of his movements, and the erratic movements of his elbow let John know that he was wanking himself off. Sherlock's rhythm quickly dissolved into a frantic backward lunge-and-retreat motion that was driving John mad. He held out as long as he could, but finally came with a loud grunt, his eyes squeezing shut in bliss as his come spurt into his partner's grasping hole. Sherlock kept up the pace for as long as John let him, but finally the doctor had to withdraw, as he was simply too sensitive to go on.

Sherlock was desperate to come, and jerked himself feverishly to that end. He was approaching what was surely to be an incredibly intense orgasm when he suddenly felt John behind him, spreading his cheeks and tonging his still-wide entrance. He could feel John's come dripping out of him and then felt John's tongue chasing the dribbles, over his perineum and into his pubic hair and around his sack. The tongue retraced back up to Sherlock's hole and dove back inside, and John was slipping a finger in beside his tongue to rub Sherlock's prostate when Sherlock let out a desperate whine and spewed his come all over his pillow.

"Ahhhhhhhhh bugger..." he groaned, finally absolutely exhausted. He collapsed onto his front, laying full-length out on the bed.

John sat back, smiling, and watched Sherlock nuzzling his face into John's own pillow, apparently completely ignoring the fact that he was lying in the now rather gargantuan wet spot. John was now feeling extremely fuzzy as he often did right after sex. He just wanted to lie down and sleep for days.

"Sherlock? You've got to move over," John said, shoving a little bit against the larger man's shoulder.

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

A light snore.

"Seriously, _Sherlock_? Give me my pil- Sherlock!" he shoved again at his partner. No response.

John smirked. Might as well give up while he was ahead. He gathered up the blankets from the end of the bed, and pulled it up over the both of them. He lay his head as close to Sherlock's as he could, and snagged a little pillow for himself.

They slept clean through till morning.


End file.
